"I should think you'd—ah—better go round to the back," he said condescendingly. "You'll find the housekeeper there."
This time it was Norah's turn to be open-eyed.
"Thanks," she said a little shortly. "Were you waiting to see anyone?"
The boy's eyebrows went up. "I am—ah—staying here."
"Oh, are you?" Norah said. "I didn't know. I'm Norah Linton."
"You!" said the stranger. There was such a world of expression in his tone that Norah flushed scarlet, suddenly painfully conscious of her extraordinary appearance. Then—it was unusual for her—she became angry.
"Did you never see anyone wet?" she asked, in trenchant tones. "And didn't you ever learn to take your hat off?"
"By Jove!" said the boy, looking at the truculent and mud-streaked figure. Then he did an unwise thing, for he burst out laughing.
"I don't know who you are," Norah said, looking at him steadily. "But I think you're the rudest, worst-mannered boy that ever came here!"
She flashed past him with her head in the air. Cecil Linton, staring after her with amazement, saw her cross the red-tiled verandah hurriedly and disappear within a side door, a trail of wet marks behind her.